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by ratedgrandr



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratedgrandr/pseuds/ratedgrandr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if our souls just float until they find the right anchor? Grantaire and Enjolras have been reincarnated in a modern setting and after years of searching find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based upon this fan art ( http://perplexingly.tumblr.com/post/43573135380/continuation-of-this-because-of ) so it really isn’t completely mine! It’s very… meh, I think, but I wrote it kind of as a request and I kind of liked it so… hopefully you all do too!

The art student sighed as one of his paint stained hands slid through jet black curls. “You can see the way Monet’s brush strokes and color choices are indicative of the influence of impressionalism over his artistic talent…” he stopped , contemplating his words for a moment and looking at the blank faces that looked up at him, waiting for him to carry on with the words that meant nothing to their ears. A few more simple sentences were forced through puckered, cynical lips before Grantaire let the girl standing next to him take over. What kind of fucking college professor took students on field trips? Only the ones who were too lazy to actually teach art history, Grantaire had concluded by the end of the first twenty minutes of the trip. He’d spent most of the trip analyzing time and again, his eyes always critical as they took in the brush strokes, the abysmal colors, and the sculptures that lacked any actual kind of dimension.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, and had no sense of direction with his art; there was always something missing, like a hole that when closed would bring his lifeless art to life. Sometimes, in the dead of night after a bottle and a half of whiskey, he’d catch it. He would sail on a breeze to another world, to a place where golden fields of immaculate curls rushed smoothly between his empty fingers; a place where two pools of blue lapsed over him like the waves of the ocean, and he could feel the warmth of another nameless, faceless person. Colors stuck out more than anything, and it was these trance-like states that he would emerge from his mind spattered in colors, his canvas finally filled in a way he never would have expected it to be.

Grantaire never recognized the man. He only knew the color of his eyes, the soft curl of his golden locks, and the way the warmth of some far off revolution colored the cheeks on the canvas. He was of another world, a world the art student couldn’t recognize no matter how much clarity he tried to gain. In fact it seemed the more clarity he gained, the less he could remember the man. The less he drank, the less he saw the man. And that wasn’t ok with him.

As he wandered through the halls of the Musee du Luxembourg, Grantaire found his eyes on everything but the art. He was sleep deprived, obvious by the black bags under his eyes, and either still drunk or very hung over from the alcohol he’d consumed last night. Now he was regretting it, but the painting last night’s session had brought on… well, it had proved worth it. The golden haired man had appeared to him again, this time spilling off of his canvas in majestic shades of red and gold. His brush had flown at alarming rates Grantaire had never experienced before, caressing the canvas gently as if he were painting the man back into life.

Sometimes, he was positive that was exactly what he was doing.

A flash of overwhelming red initially caught the painter’s attention that afternoon, but it was the piercing blue of a stare that caused him to drop the cell phone he’d been peeping at instead of paying attention to a portrait by Van Gogh. The professor was rambling, but that didn’t interest him nearly as much as the blue eyes he knew from another time that were currently fixed upon him. Grantaire absently accepted the phone from the blonde girl who had picked it up for him, but in the half second he’d looked away, the blue-eyed man from across the museum had turned away from him.

Even from the back, Grantaire recognized those unruly curls, the slender way the man’s shoulder’s sloped, how perfectly lean his frame was… And he was completely unaware of how openly he was staring, and how crazy he must have looked. And there was only one thing he knew right now: he couldn’t let that man get away.

Grantaire’s phone was haphazardously shoved into his pocket before he plunged through the crowd that was thick with tourists and headed in the direction he’d just seen the blonde head of curls disappear. After a second of searching he found the figure, and Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks, completely taken aback by the perfection of the man standing in front of him.

The artist had never realized that he’d fallen in love with his muse, not until he was standing there before him in the flesh. He felt his breath hitch in his throat, and something deep within him was stirring, though what it was, the dark haired student wasn’t completely sure. It was like something waking up deep within him, something from another time that left a tangy, metallic taste on his lips and the far off stench of smoke in his nose. The weight of a thousand unsaid words seemed to fall upon him as Grantaire reached out, paint-stained fingers so close to the marble, crystalline skin of a man he’d painted so intimately yet had no idea had actually existed.

And then their skin met, flesh upon flesh, fingers wrapping gently with enough pressure to get the other man’s attention. The spark there was exhilarating, like a shock of electricity had been shot up from the point where Grantaire’s fingers wrapped around the man’s bicep up through his arm at an alarming speed, holding him melted to that spot in the room and waiting for the moment when Apollo would turn around and acknowledge the mere mortal presenting himself to him in the most humble manner possible.

“What the…” Grantaire heard the words as the man swung around, and found that those damn blue eyes were more amazing up close than piercing through him from across the room. They held that same look he’d seen staring back at him from his canvas on one too many occasions, and seeing that expression in his own world was quite unnerving. Grantaire was positive the man thought him crazy, and after releasing his lower lip from between his teeth a quick “sorry” was mumbled. He was about to withdraw his hand, make up some excuse and tell the man he thought he’d been someone else, when smooth, slender fingers clasped over his own. 

Shock was the first word that came to mind as their eyes met, two people stopped from their daily duties, completely halted in time and wrapped in a world that was purely their own. Grantaire could feel his heart singing for this man, could feel the thrumming of the blood through his veins and was unaware of anything else in the world aside from those blue eyes staring directly at him. He would do anything for the stranger in front of him… but was he really a stranger?

Grantaire didn’t believe in reincarnation; he didn’t think we started out as slugs who had to work their way up the chain, nor did he think that spirits roamed he earth. But something about this man who was currently curling his fingers around the artist’s was so familiar and so aged it was impossible not to think he was from a different time. 

And then the other man had pulled him into an embrace, one that was so much more than a hug. It was a collision of two bodies into one, completely familiar despite a lack of knowledge the two men had for each other. Fingers gripped fabric, black clashed with gold, bodies molded to the other, and it was so much more than Grantaire would have ever assumed. He could feel the modern Adonis’s fingers furled through his gray v-neck, clenched as if he was never going to let go.

“Grantaire.”

The name rolled off the other French man’s lips as if he’d been rehearsing it in the weeks leading up to this moment, and a shudder rolled down R’s spine as he pulled away with shagged shoulders. “How… do you know my name?” Confusion was evident across his features, but those piercing blue orbs were focused so fiercely upon him that Taire hardly noticed the slight shake of his head and shrug of his shoulders. None of that mattered, though. 

What mattered more than anything in that crowded museum was that Grantaire finally felt like he was home.


End file.
